


Not in the hands of boys

by Janet Carter (janet_carter)



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:33:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janet_carter/pseuds/Janet%20Carter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christopher Foyle in the Great War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not in the hands of boys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gramarye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gramarye/gifts).



The rum rations were down to three parts water to one part rum, but they still gave a few seconds of warmth.  They did nothing, however, for the mud. It had filled his trench-boots for days now, with billets another three days away, and it had sucked a man hip-deep just this morning before they'd managed to pry him out.  Petticoat Lane was the worst of the trenches in their section, and no amount of re-entrenching and reinforcement of the walls could make it less of a swamp.  He had spent all morning with his men on it, and was covered head to toe in mud as thanks.

The day had been quiet otherwise – some desultory machine-gun fire on both sides, a few shells, and a whiz-bang that had undone all of the work Phelps and Wright had put into shoring up the parapet on the east end of their section.  But then Sergeant-Major Grover had made his discovery, and it looked like the evening might get interesting.

He brushed himself off as best he could and poked his head into the Company dugout.

"Captain?" he said.

"Blast it, Lieutenant," Waite said, head down on the map table, left cheek pressed against the west flank of the enemy's latest advance.  "I left strict orders with Morgan that I wasn't to be woken until the next watch."

Foyle stepped all the way into the dugout and cleared his throat.

"It's past that, is it?" the Captain asked.  He sat up and took a swig from his canteen.  "Are the men ready for tonight's patrol?"

"Yes, but I've something else to report."

"What now? Someone tell Fritz I've got a blasted headache." He rubbed his hair and picked up a book of local folklore from the stool next to him.  "Oh, I say, at ease."

Foyle brushed off the seat and sat down.  "Phillips brought something to my attention just now," he said.  "The enemy gunners have been directing a lot of fire down the right side of No Man's Land, our right."

"But we don't have any men there.  Look like they're clearing a path?" Waite said, focused now.  "I'll have our guns trained on it tonight, though I'd say that seems awfully obvious."

"Well, that's what we thought at first," said Foyle.  "But Sergeant-Major Grover noticed something else.  You see, there's another area - not a clear path, and they haven't been spending as much time on it. But there's a very nice crater, with an area that we can't quite get a good bead on behind it.  The Sergeant-Major had a look with the field-glass, and he pointed out what looks an awful lot like the handle of a shovel."

"Running out a new sap, you think? There's good cover for it over there," the Captain asked.  "Good eye, that Grover."

"Yes, sir," said Foyle.  "The action on the other side may just be to distract us." 

"Yes, we'll still keep an eye on that path tonight.  But take your patrol over towards the new excavation, and see what's going on.  I hope they're ready."

Foyle chuckled.  "They asked if I thought you would let us attempt it tonight, but I'm not sure I could have held them back if you'd had a different idea. Ever since Company B's skirmish the other day, they've been itching for a chance at some combat."

"Glad they're still keen on action," said the captain.  "By all means, then, go to it."

***

They were almost into No Man's Land when the artillery let loose sixty yards to Foyle's right.  The whole patrol flattened closer to the ground and froze; the gunfire was good concealment for any noise they made as they moved, but it created light as well as smoke.  There was no cover between them and the crater; if even one sniper saw them, they would be in trouble. 

Foyle wasn't sure whether they were sneaking one by the Germans or the other way around, either, if both sides were using the fire on the right as a diversion from their real objectives.  But so far there were no signs of soldiers ahead of them.  He waved his men forward. A gooseberry of barbed wire scraped his side, and he winced as he pulled free of the entanglement.

They sped up entering No Man's Land, still cautious but crawling faster toward cover.  They were almost to the crater when a shot rang out, followed by a grunt.  Foyle looked back to see Phelps crawling slower, one leg dragging, but it was too dark to see anything behind him.

Wright and Grover went back and grabbed him by the arms, but another figure came out of the smoke running toward them, this one in a German uniform, and if he got the shout out, they were done for.  Wright dropped Phelps and had the German by the throat.  Grover had gotten Phelps to the crater on his own and rushed back; in seconds he'd knocked out the German neatly with the butt of his rifle.

They pulled the unconscious prisoner down next to Phelps and huddled in the crater.  The sergeant-major quickly tied the German's arms behind his back, took the soldier's rifle, and handed the bayonet to Griffiths.

"Private?" Foyle asked Phelps, daring a whisper after the noise the scuffle had made.

"Just dandy, sir," Phelps said, "Ready to fight a few more of those."  He nodded at the German, but the cloth Wright had just finished tying around his thigh was turning dark.  They didn't have long; the Germans wouldn't be distracted forever. 

Foyle pulled himself forward and his hand sunk into something soft.  He looked down. It wasn't the first time he'd touched a corpse, but it had been exposed to the elements longer than the ones he'd dealt with before.  He shifted his hand and took stock of the position. 

They were twenty-five yards or so from the German line; the crater gave them some cover but wouldn't protect them in heavy shelling, and if it came to hand-to-hand they'd be at a disadvantage, with one casualty and a prisoner to take back to Battalion Headquarters.  If they went back now, the capture would in itself be a good showing.  On the other hand, no one had fired on them yet, and most of the artillery action was still far over to their right.  And they hadn't answered the original question of the new erection that should be just a few yards ahead of them.  That decided it.

"Griffiths, Wright," he whispered.  "Stay with the prisoner; get him back to our lines if you have cover."  They would be disappointed to be cut out of the action.  Griffiths was barely out of grammar school, and jumpy. He might grow into it – quickly, from what Foyle had seen in the other men out here – but Foyle would not miss him by his side.  "Phelps, you too – we'll take you back with us, but there's some business to tend to first."

The five remaining men gathered around him at the edge of the crater.  They still didn't have a clear view of the new sap through the stirred-up dirt and the enemy's barbed wire, but their position wouldn't get any better.  The artillery let up for a moment, and the sound of German voices carried into the crater – they were nearby, but not approaching.

A glance over the edge of the crater and another lull in the gunfire made it clear – there were men in a trench or sap nearby.  Foyle signaled the men to ready their bombs, and on the count of three they lobbed them towards the voices.

They ducked from the explosion out of habit, then looked out from the crater to see what they'd accomplished.  A pink glow rose from the area of the new excavation, and a German patrol was running towards it.

Another bomb from the crater knocked down a couple of the Germans, but some headed for Foyle and his men, and soon it was hand-to-hand in the darkness.

Foyle was grappling with a man just a bit taller than him. He jabbed an elbow in the man's face, knocking him back farther and then getting a grip on his arm and twisting it.  A whistle - a bullet just missing his shoulder – and the German had shifted his weight and gotten the advantage; Foyle pushed back but his hand was trapped, and the enemy soldier had him against the sloped side of the crater and was bringing his bayonet up when he jolted and stopped moving.

The German's body fell, and Foyle saw Wright behind him. He nodded his thanks and saw that the skirmish had ended in his men's favor, other Germans down or running.  But gunfire had started from the line ahead of them; it was time to retreat. At least they had a prisoner to show for it - where was the prisoner, had Wright left him with Griffiths? Wright must have been hit – his leg was dragging and Foyle was catching up with him to see why he was so slow, but suddenly instead Wright was flying through the air and the dirt had gone all topsy-turvy again and there was silence.

His ears took a few seconds to clear from the shell.  He signaled to the men; the youngest private was still firing at a fleeing German.  Griffiths – there was Griffiths – grabbed Phelps by the arm and the soldier screamed in pain. Grover helped Foyle pull him up and they ran back with more gunfire behind them and the high explosives starting in.

They tumbled into the trench after the rest of the patrol - Foyle counted, all accounted for, but three visible injuries – Wright would patch up all right, but Phelps might be for blighty. But no prisoner.

"The German," he said, and then he looked at Griffiths and knew.

"He attacked us, his arms must not have been tied right, I had to protect myself."

The prisoner was dead.  An orderly was patting Foyle's arms, looking for injuries.  He knew they wouldn't find anything, but let them finish, then headed to his bunk.

***

They had taken three casualties, killed their own prisoner, and made no advance in intelligence or on the enemy position.

"Could you tell me again," Foyle asked Griffiths, "how it happened back there?"  He had brought Griffiths along to check how Petticoat Lane was doing.  Each step was a treacherous, gluey mess, but the work they'd done the day before had held up, for a miracle.  "From the beginning."

"I already – it's as I said, sir," said Griffiths.  He had stopped what he was doing, but didn't meet Foyle's eyes.  Foyle didn't say anything.

"We were taking the prisoner back, as you ordered, and he wasn't struggling at all, like," said Griffiths.  "Like he had given up, and I thought it was a stroke of luck that he was coming so easily – but then we got down for a moment when it looked like fire, like the Boche had opened right up on us."

"How far had you gotten from the patrol?" asked Foyle. There hadn't been fire anywhere near them, but god knew it was easy to react first.

"Ask a lot of questions, don't you?" Griffiths asked.  Foyle tipped his head.  "Sir," Griffiths corrected.

"We were down, and suddenly he was loose," said Griffiths, "and he hit Wright, sir.  Just ask him. Ask Wright."  He looked pale, paler than when he'd been bleeding on the ground after that bombing last month, but after all he'd been muddier then, Foyle supposed.

"Corporal Wright's been taken to the Clearing Station.  I'm told," said Foyle, "that he doesn't remember much since the shell."

"The German reared right up and clocked him," said Griffiths.  "And I tried to get hold of him again, right, but he was hitting us left and right and got a hold on my rifle, and it was touch and go for a bit, sir, but I managed to wrestle him down and get it back."

"So you wrestled him back down to the ground while he had your rifle?"  Foyle said.  "You didn't mention that to Captain Waite."  He also hadn't had a rifle when Foyle had left them. Wright could have handed it off to him, Foyle told himself. 

"Didn't I?" Griffiths said.  He started walking again, then stopped himself and turned back when he saw that Foyle wasn't following. 

"And he broke free again?"

"Yes, sir, I swear he must have been primed with ether like they say, the way he fought."

The man had been injured as well as tightly bound.  Foyle had seen it himself; could he really have managed to present a danger?  Or had his men – he could imagine it too clearly, getting frightened of the German, or angry, and doing something unforgivable.  For all of the months of fighting, most of his men had had few opportunities to take direct revenge on an enemy soldier like that – not from behind a Lewis gun, but one man to another.  He'd overheard the private this morning, talking after stand-to: "I don't see what the problem is," the boy had said, "in killing off bloody Germans."

He had learned a lot in these past few months, but he was still learning how men thought and behaved in the trenches and on the front lines. So were many of his commanders.  Perhaps he would never understand, but he had to try.

"Prisoners are far more valuable to the War Office than bodies, I'm told." 

"Better him than us," Griffiths said. "He came at us, I told you."

"And defending ourselves and our fellow soldiers _is_ certainly part of our duty.  But our highest duty is to our country."  And that was parroting what his superiors had told him – but there were higher duties still, weren't there?  It didn't answer the question of just what compass Griffiths and Wright had been following.

***

"They're just boys," he said.  They had been back in billets for a couple of days now, and Foyle was helping hang up the washing for Madame Mérel, whose barn was their shelter this turn, and far sounder than their last billet.

"Lads are capable of many things," said the chaplain.  "I should think you'd have learnt that, given your profession."  He briskly shook out a pillowcase and pinned it to the line.

"Perhaps not as well as yours teaches you," said Foyle.  The Reverend Oxley was a few years older than he was, and had that air of self-assurance that only English vicars could maintain, even when confessing their own deepest doubts.

"And they're in your charge, when you're hardly older or more experienced in war yourself – apologies, but it's true," he said, glancing up from the sheet he was straightening. Foyle had not planned to disagree.

"I didn't think it would all be glory and honor," said Foyle.  "I didn't know much, it seems now, but I knew there would be killing."

Oxley looked steadily at him, waiting for him to continue.

"My father's been a police officer for twenty-nine years," he said.  "I've grown up on stories of the things men can do.  I don't know why I'm surprised that they might keep happening, even in wartime."

"War brings out all kinds of things in men," Oxley said.  He returned to the laundry.  "It's a cliché, but it's one that our country hasn't had the chance to test for a while.  Heroism, cowardice, our basest natures and highest loyalties, all brought to the fore for strangers to see."

Foyle nodded.  The laundry was almost all hung.

"You'll get past it," Oxley said.  "I've been talking to the old regulars – the few that are left – and they say you get past it.  As best you can, with the help of whomever you can depend on.  Do you have anyone at home?"

Foyle didn't answer directly.  "What if you think you've seen, not just killing, but murder?"

"That's a very serious accusation to make – but of course you know that, what am I thinking?"  Oxley sat down on a rock.  "Have you talked to your superiors?"

Foyle had.  "They don't feel that there's a problem," he said. 

And he couldn't be sure of his suspicions – soldiers boasted, _men_ boasted, embellished stories in letters home or at the pub.  The German could have been clever with knots, could have gotten free, and he wanted to believe his men were acting honorably, for both their sakes and his own.  He had chosen them to take charge of the prisoner; he bore responsibility with them, for whatever had happened.

"There's a point," said the chaplain, "in war, as in life, where we must accept the rules laid down by a power above our own.  Since the Reformation, we've had the responsibility of interpreting the rules according to our own consciences. But some things are not for us to decide."  He shook his head.  "And I'm afraid my figure of speech is bordering on the blasphemous. What does your conscience tell you?"

Foyle's conscience had many thoughts, on who bore guilt for mistakes and malice, on how commanders kept faults from repeating, on how to be a leader by word and deed.  They would return to the trenches on Monday.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Wilfrid Owen. Thanks to G for looking this over for me! Information on soldiers during World War I from several sources, but I'm especially in debt to ["A Temporary gentleman" in France: home letters from an officer at the front with introductory chapters by Captain A. J. Dawson"](http://openlibrary.org/books/OL14044778M/A_Temporary_gentleman_in_France), online at the Internet Archive, for many period details and the basis for the main event in the story.


End file.
